


apartments and art supplies

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Developing Friendships, Eviction, Fluff, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Roommates, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27061765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: It would be convenient, if Feuilly could have an apartment immediately, with a roommate to split rent and expenses on, and closer to his work and the Musain than his old apartment. His only worry is the cost.“The rent—” Feuilly begins.“—Bah,” Grantaire says empathically.
Relationships: Feuilly & Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 29





	apartments and art supplies

**Author's Note:**

> For Feuilly Week 2020!

Feuilly gets evicted in at high noon, just as he’s slipping into his room in order to sneak away a pamphlet. His landlord shouts at him about his radical political opinions—completely hypocritical of him, since he was just supporting those opinions a few months before. Feuilly gets permission to pack before he leaves, and that’s the extent of the supposed goodwill from his fellow man.

So much for that.

He returns to the atelier and while his coworkers commiserate with him, no one has a spare room or knows a place with one. He understands, of course—they have their families to feed and their reputations to keep and Feuilly’s run-ins with the law and his frequent speeches would endanger them even more. 

“It’s not that we don’t want to,” Angelique says to him when she comes to collect the fans Feuilly has painted. She’s newly-wed, just a few weeks ago to a man Feuilly had apprenticed with. “It’s just…” she motions, her hands twisting. “We have no room, and a kid on the way—”

“—I understand,” Feuilly assures her and returns to work, pushing down the worry that spreads in his chest.

He stashes his few belongings in the back room of the Musain after work, apologizing profusely to Louison for the inconvenience. She rolls her eyes at him.

“You get kicked out and you’re the one making apologies?” she says, although her tone is kind. “Really, it’s fine, now get out of here before your friends find out and go on a rampage.”

Feuilly laughs at the thought: the Amis, storming the gates of his landlord with muskets and bayonets, shouting demands. “That would be unfortunate.”

“You see?” Louison says, nodding sagely. “Now get out of here.” She jerks her head towards the corner, where a shadowy Grantaire sits hunched over a table. “He’s in a snit because M. Enjolras left suddenly for a vacation.” In other words, an ammunition resupply. “I checked and it’s not your turn to cheer him up.”

Feuilly brushes that off and enters the room. They take their turns Grantaire-wrangling, as Louison well knows, and he’s as good at it as any of the others. He carefully picks out an empty glass and seats himself next to Grantaire. “Good evening.”

Grantaire grunts and raises his head to pour Feuilly a drink. “What about this evening can be said to be good?” he proclaims, although his voice isn’t raised as usual. “Does it exhibit moral conduct? Is it a holy evening? Is it not a criminal? I—”

“—a toast,” Feuilly says firmly, to prevent another rant. Grantaire clicks his bottle against Feuilly’s glass dutifully. “To honorable men.”

Grantaire’s glance is sharper than Feuilly is used to. “You toast to an impossibility. A contradiction. To be a man is to not be honorable. To be honorable is not to be a man. What could possibly move you to such dreams? What gods steal your reason from your eyes? Why—”

“—My landlord threw me out,” Feuilly says, and swallows down his wine to stunned silence.

“That’s impossible,” Grantaire says, finally. It is possibly the longest time he has been silent. He squints at the corners of the room suspiciously, as if wondering whether the entire thing was a prank. “You’re pulling my leg.”

Feuilly shakes his head. “As of today, I have no place to live,” he says, as if saying it will make it any less of a bad situation. He wonders, idly, about his options.

Enjolras’ quarters would be locked, since he is out of town, and he is under enough suspicion that breaking in would prove disastrous. Courfeyrac, who Feuilly had stayed with before, now has a Bonapartist for a roommate. Bahorel—

“—well, my last roommate hasn’t been seen since 1827.”

“Excuse me?”

“The roommate before that died, and the one before that packed his bags and threw them out the window.”

Feuilly takes another sip of the wine and waits.

“Ingrates, the lot of them. What man abandons the comforts of a room for the wilderness of Paris? Giants loom in the streets, chimeras launch themselves and scratch your eyes out if you look at them wrong, and if you’re particularly lucky, a child of the gods descends from the clouds and walks among the mortals.”

Louison emerges from the shadows then and places a new bottle on the table. Grantaire barely pauses to acknowledge her, and she smirks at Feuilly when he gives it a disapproving glance.

“So there is a bedframe in my room, gathering dust, abandoned to the elements and already paid for—” He grabs the bottle and twists the cork off. “—you are welcome to it, if it meets your standards.”

It would be convenient, if Feuilly could have an apartment immediately, with a roommate to split rent and expenses on, and closer to his work and the Musain than his old apartment. His only worry is the cost.

“The rent—” Feuilly begins.

“—Bah,” Grantaire says empathically.

-

Feuilly is used to less-than-ideal living conditions, but the sheer audacity of his friend has to be impressive at the very least. Grantaire gestures proudly to the cramped room, the table suspended from the ceiling by ropes with its legs wrecked, and the bottles of oil and wine that litter the floor.

“It’s nice,” Feuilly says, putting on a smile.

“A rival to only the very best of hotel rooms in Paris,” Grantaire promises.

Something scuffles in the walls. A cat on the roof yowls, screeches, and pounces. A shower of dust falls from the ceiling and settles over everything like a wash of light gray paint. Feuilly suppresses a cough.

“Well if it’s not up to your discerning standards,” Grantaire mutters, kicking at a stray dustball as though it caused him personal offense, “you could rally an army of housekeepers, arm them with the finest brooms and dusters, send them whirling through the unconquered lands of dust and despair—”

“—Conquer?” Feuilly says, and the gleam in his eye is quite familiar. Grantaire barely has time to sigh.

-

As soon as Feuilly finishes his speech, Grantaire has glasses out and a bottle of wine neatly divided between them. It’s admirable restraint, considering everything that had just transpired.

The admirable restraint doesn’t last. By the time Feuilly goes to bed, Grantaire is singing at the top of his lungs, something about kings and umbrellas and pears. He doesn’t stop even when Feuilly throws a pillow at his face, only switches to La Marseillaise.

“I am at liberty to inflict my person upon the world,” Grantaire says, after being confronted. “I was born a nuisance, let me be a nuisance to my grave. You cannot impugn my rights, I tell you!”

“And the rights of your neighbors?”

“Let them be driven off by the sound of my song! Let them storm my gates and shout their grievances, and then, and only then, will I make concessions. To arms, my brethren and let us celebrate the arrival of the chosen artisan with good cheer and song—”

Feuilly goes to bed, and stuffs cotton in his ears.

-

Grantaire is still singing, a slow somber song that would be tearjerking if it wasn’t performed loudly in the middle of the night. Feuilly has not said a word about it, only berated himself over and over for not thinking Grantaire’s offer over.

Grantaire’s voice is rough and scratchy, like a stray cat’s claws set into skin, and his attempts to whisper only succeed in making his pitch wobble. His voice carries across the room to Feuilly’s side effortlessly.

“Please keep it down,” Feuilly whispers, with his face turned towards the wall. “I have work tomorrow.”

He isn’t sure if Grantaire hears him, but in the morning, there’s an egg and an apologetic-looking loaf of brioche for breakfast that are certainly not courtesy of Grantaire’s landlord, and Grantaire is sulking more than usual.

-

“Leave,” Louison advises. “Run far, far away and find a different apartment somewhere he’ll never find you.”

“I can’t,” Feuilly says. “I don’t run very fast.”

Louison smacks him on the head and goes back to the washroom.

-

Courfeyrac offers his rooms first, because he has been consistently horrified with Feuilly’s sleep habits from the start of their friendship. “I still have an extra mattress,” he says, counting his qualifications off on his fingers. “The rooms are large, I’m rarely home, and Marius’ political views are much better nowadays.”

Feuilly winces at the mention of Marius. “No, I really think that would be too expensive, and I’d hate to impose on you and Marius—”

“It’s not an imposition at all,” Courfeyrac says, but he doesn’t protest further. He does shove Combeferre in front of Feuilly and gives them both an entirely unsubtle wink, but that’s the extent of it.

“I have a roommate,” Combeferre says flatly. “Unless you want to sleep in the same room with two medical students.”

“Oh—”

“—Just to be clear, I don’t recommend sleeping in the same room with two medical students. For your own health.” Combeferre looks Feuilly directly in the eye. “Do not.”

“I won’t.”

-

Feuilly finds the paints on his third day, behind the bookshelves, stuffed next to a treatise on the rights of man and a half-painted canvas. He’s had a few too many drinks and that’s the only reason he ends up pulling the paints out, sending dust and spiders everywhere. Grantaire doesn’t notice, too engrossed in writing a letter to his family that is just passive-aggressive enough to calm his spirit but not so much that he would get disowned. It’s a delicate balance, he says.

“Do you use these?” Feuilly asks and Grantaire jumps a few feet in the air, his face stretched into an exaggerated caricature of surprise. He makes a show of rubbing his eyes, frowning cross-eyed at his nose, and squinting at the paints.

“I know not what you are talking about, good fellow. I have never seen those before in my life.”

“They were behind your bookcase,” Feuilly prompts. He shakes one of the bottles and watches the pigments swirl. “They’re very nice paints.”

Grantaire scrunches up his face and suddenly slaps his forehead. “Oh, right. Yeah, it’s been years since I’ve touched those. You can have them. Go wild.” He pats Feuilly’s shoulder awkwardly. “You have my blessing.”

Feuilly might be drunker than he thought he was, because he starts to cry, thinking about the paints alone behind the bookshelf. “You’ve been neglecting them,” he says, brandishing one of the bottles—an ochre—in Grantaire’s face. “How could you?”

Grantaire looks uncomfortable. Good. “Um, I never really thought about it.”

“Exactly. You didn’t think,” Feuilly says, hugging the vials to his chest. “Neglect,” he says gravely, caressing the vermillion. “Neglect is the poison of our society…”

-

“Well, I stand corrected. Apparently, I may be made a revolutionary with a little convincing.”

“Hush,” Feuilly says and he hammers the last nail into place.

“When you said you wanted to fix a broken system that damages its constituents, I didn’t think you meant the dining table.”

“It was broken,” Feuilly explains, as though he is being reasonable. “We got splinters on it.”

“That was not the point.”

“Every small action contributes to the larger whole of the revolution. No table must be, er, left behind.” Feuilly clears his throat and allows the silence to thicken.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

-

Louison narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t believe you.”

“When have I ever lied to you?” Grantaire says, brandishing his empty glass for a refill.

Louison does not dump the watery wine on his head, which is a testament to her self-control. “Always.” She pitches her voice low, imitating Grantaire’s. “‘Oh, Louison, I promise I’ll pay for this round! Louison, I won’t keep you from your work! I swear, I’m not pining for Enjolras, I’m just staring at his unfashionable waistcoat!’”

Grantaire frowns. “I asked ‘when,’ I didn’t ask for examples.”

Louison ignores him. “So?”

“Feuilly and I _are_ getting along,” he insists, again. “He hasn’t tried to leave _once_.”

-

Grantaire wields the scissors with surprisingly steady hands, but even so, Feuilly keeps as still as possible and fidgets with the hem of the cloth draped over his shoulders. He didn’t have time to go to the barber’s this week and his hair is getting in his eyes, which is the only reason he even agreed.

“Stay still,” Grantaire says, tugging on the hair at Feuilly’s nape. “This won’t take long.”

“It would go faster if you got on with it.”

“I’m _concentrating_.” He snips off a lock of hair. And another. “Are you sure you want it that short because I’ve been doing some thinking and—”

“Yes.”

Another snip. “But are you sure—”

“ _Yes_ ,” Feuilly says, holding back a sneeze as the hair falls down his nose.

-

Grantaire hasn’t spoken since the night before and Feuilly is starting to get worried. His fever has been getting steadily worse for the past three days and now, he hasn’t stirred from the bed.

“Grantaire?” Feuilly says tentatively.

Grantaire responds efficiently by vomiting over the side of the bed all over Feuilly’s shoes.

Feuilly wastes no time in sending a message to Combeferre and looks through the cabinets for remedies. There’s laudanum and wine that has turned to vinegar, but nothing that looks vaguely medicinal. Grantaire’s retching has slowed.

“It’s going to be all right,” Feuilly says. He grabs the nearest clean cloth and splashes some water on it, swipes it over Grantaire’s face. “You’ll feel better soon.”

“Liar,” Grantaire croaks, although he allows Feuilly to wrestle him out of his soiled clothes and into new ones. “All of you, liars, every single one of you.”

“We are?”

Grantaire nods, even though it makes him turn green. “Every last one of you. To the bone.”

Feuilly just nods. “I sent for Combeferre.”

Grantaire frowns, coughs. “You didn’t have to bother—”

“—I did,” Feuilly says. Grantaire smiles. It’s a wan smile, but Feuilly accepts it for the gesture that it is.

At least, he does before Grantaire abruptly throws up again.

-

“It’s an apology pie,” Grantaire explains, prodding mournfully at the charred remains on the pan. “Or at least, that was the intention. A ‘sorry I threw up on your shoes’ pie.”

“It didn’t go well?” Feuilly guesses.

“It didn’t go well,” Grantaire confirms. He tries one of the crumbs and makes a face. “It didn’t go well at all.”

“Ah, the thought counts?”

“You can’t eat thoughts,” Grantaire says. Feuilly braces for a ramble, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Grantaire reaches for his hat. “Come on, I know the best place for pies…”

-

A firm knock sounds on the door, a single smart rap that nevertheless carries with it the faint song of heavenly choirs and the music of the celestial spheres.

“That would be Enjolras,” Grantaire grumbles, without any real venom behind it.

Feuilly glances at the door. A soft glow emanates from the crack underneath. “Want me to get that?”

“ _Please_.”

He unsticks the door and pulls it open, no hesitation involved. Enjolras stands in the doorway, one hand raised in the air to knock. His eyes are wide.

“…Feuilly?”

Feuilly nods, awkwardly. Grantaire seems to be frantically cleaning up the room behind him. “I live here now.”

Enjolras looks even more confused. “Um.”

“Would you like to come in?”

Enjolras looks agonized. “Ah, perhaps I will come by later.” He glances behind Feuilly and leans forward. “Hello, Grantaire,” he calls through the door.

Grantaire nods back. There is a broken quill stubbornly clinging to his hair.

“I will just…leave you to whatever you were doing.” He turns and flees. Feuilly goes after him.


End file.
